She must be lovely, and constant, and kind,
Holy and pure, and humble of mind,

Blithe of cheer, and gentle of mood,
Courteous, and generous, and noble of blood-
Lovely as the sun's first ray,

When it breaks the clouds of an April day;
Constant and true as the widow'd dove,

Kind as a minstrel that sings of love;
Pure as the fountain in rocky cave,
Where never sunbeam kiss'd the wave;
Humble as maiden that loves in vain,
Holy as hermit's vesper strain ;

Gentle as breeze that but whispers and dies,

Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in its

sighs;

Courteous as monarch the morn he is crown'd,
Generous as spring-dews that bless the glad ground;
Noble her blood as the currents that met
In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet―
Such must her form be, her mood, and her strain,
That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain,

II.

Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep,
His blood it was fever'd, his breathing was deep.
He had been pricking against the Scot,
The foray was long, and the skirmish hot;
His dinted helm and his buckler's plight
Bore token of a stubborn fight.

All in the castle must hold them still,

Harpers must lull him to his rest,

With the slow soft tunes he loves the best,

Till sleep sink down upon his breast,

Like the dew on a summer hill.

III.

It was the dawn of an autumn day;
The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray,
That like a silvery crape was spread
Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head,
And faintly gleam'd each painted pane
Of the lordly halls of Triermain,

When that Baron bold awoke.
Starting he woke, and loudly did call,
Rousing his menials in bower and hall,
While hastily he spoke.

IV.

'Hearken, my minstrels ! Which of Touch'd his harp with that dying fall,

So sweet, so soft, so faint,

It seem'd an angel's whisper'd call

To an expiring saint?

And hearken, my merry men!

where

ye all

What time or

Did she pass, that maid with her heavenly

brow,

With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair,
And her graceful step and her angel air,
And the eagle plume in her dark-brown hair,

That pass'd from my bower e'en now!"

V.

Answer'd him Richard de Bretville; he

Was chief of the Baron's minstrelsy,— "Silent, noble chieftain, we

Have sat since midnight close,

When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings,
Murmur'd from our melting strings,

And hush'd you to repose.
Had a harp-note sounded here,
It had caught my watchful ear,
Although it fell as faint and shy
As bashful maiden's half-form'd sigh,

When she thinks her lover near."
Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tall,
He kept guard in the outer hall,—
"Since at eve our watch took post,
Not a foot has thy portal cross'd;

Else had I heard the steps, though low,
And light they fell, as when earth receives,
In morn of frost, the wither'd leaves,

That drop when no winds blow."

VI.

"Then come thou hither, Henry, my page,
Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage,
When that dark castle, tower and spire,
Rose to the skies a pile of fire,

And redden'd all the Nine-stane Hill, And the shrieks of death, that wildly broke Through devouring flame and smothering smoke,

'Made the warrior's heart-blood chill.

The trustiest thou of all my train,

My fleetest courser thou must rein,
And ride to Lyulph's tower,

And from the Baron of Triermain
Greet well that Sage of power.

He is sprung from Druid sires,
And British bards that tuned their lyres
To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise,
And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.1
Gifted like his gifted race,

He the characters can trace,
Graven deep in elder time
Upon Hellvellyn's cliffs sublime;
Sign and sigil well doth he know,
And can bode of weal and woe,

Of kingdoms' fall, and fate of wars,
From mystic dreams and course of stars.

He shall tell if middle earth

To that enchanting shape gave birth,
Or if 'twas but an airy thing,

Such as fantastic slumbers bring,

Fram'd from the rainbow's varying dyes,
Or fading tints of western skies.2

1 Dunmailraise is one of the grand passes from Cumberland into Westmoreland. It takes its name from a cairn, or pile of stones, erected, it is said, to the memory of Dunmail, the last King of Cumberland.

2 ["Just like Aurora when she ties

A rainbow round the morning skies."

MOORE.]

For, by the blessed rood I swear,

If that fair form breathe vital air,
No other maiden by my side

Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride!"1

VII.

The faithful Page he mounts his steed,
And soon he cross'd green Irthing's mead,
Dash'd o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain,
And Eden barr'd his course in vain.
He pass'd red Penrith's Table Round,2
For feats of chivalry renown'd,

Left Mayburgh's mound3 and stones of power,
By Druids raised in magic hour,

1 [This powerful Baron required in the fair one whom he should honour with his hand an assemblage of qualities, that appears to us rather unreasonable even in those high days, profuse as they are known to have been of perfections now unattainable. His resolution, however, was not more inflexible than that of any mere modern youth; for he decrees that his nightly visitant, of whom at this time he could know nothing, but that she looked and sung like an angel, if of mortal mould, shall be his bride." Quarterly Review.]

2 A circular intrenchment, about half a mile from Penrith, is thus popularly termed. The circle within the ditch is about one hundred and sixty paces in circumference, with openings, or approaches, directly opposite to each other. As the ditch is on the inner side, it could not be intended for the purpose of defence, and it has reasonably been conjectured, that the enclosure was designed for the solemn exercise of feats of chivalry; and the embankment around for the convenience of the spectators.

3 Higher up the River Eamont than Arthur's Round Table